Logotherapy Pt 02

Logotherapy P. 2

(Please read Logotherapy P.1 to get caught up.)

These stories are all true.

Only names have been changed, and some settings where the location may be too indicative of identity.

All characters are over eighteen.

This is the second installment of the retelling of the history of my sexual experiences.

Part 1 recap: I started the narrative when I returned home from college at twenty-two with a useless degree. I was still working through real Oedipal issues.

Begin Part 2

So, after that initial encounter in the hallway, I devised several plans to get a better view next time.

This was long before spy cams. I had to be creative.

Eventually, I discovered that if I turned the outside flood lights on, the light bleeding through cracks in the window shades might provide additional light inside their room. I tested it one night and it was perfect. The next time he came home I would be ready.

I don't know how long I had to wait, but the charmer showed up late one hot July evening or early August. (I left for graduate school in September, so it was between July and August of 1991.)

I played it cool throughout the evening and then through dinner. He pressured her into drinks and I even ignored his open sexual comments about my mom's body.

I waited for the right time and eventually went to bed. But before ascending the stairs, I switched on the flood light before heading up.

Time stood still. No falling asleep this time. Rock hard and furiously jerking off, anticipating what I both longed and feared would occur.

After midnight passed and the TV was still blaring downstairs I thought it was not going to happen.

As both disappointment and relief swept over me, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. "Here he comes," I thought. The squeaky wooden stairs gave way to his unsteady weight.

As he passed my room. He shut my door. Then I heard him close my mom's bedroom door behind him.

I sprang out of bed and repeated my previous strategy of passing through the connecting bathroom to watch from the adjoining rooms.

I made it to the adjoining bathroom, but luckily, their door was wide open.

Any wrong move or misstep, and they could switch on a light and see me standing in the bathroom doorway with a massive, pulsating boner.

This time, I at least had the good sense to wear a long black t-shirt to both be more stealthy and to cover my cock if I got caught.

I thought my best play was to step into the shower. So, I painstakingly raised my legs over the bathtub's edge and eased myself to the back of the tub, maneuvering as best I could behind the shower curtain that still pulled about halfway across the rod.

I could hear him talking but couldn't make out what was being said.

She gave a few audible sighs and I heard her say, "Just do what you need to".

And with that, I felt like a caveman.

I wanted to run in there and crack him over the head with a club and take her for myself.

I loved her, I thought - no, I knew.

[In later chapters, I can explore all the afternoons I spent rummaging through the drawers in her dresser and the discovery of her panties that set me on a path of panty theft for many years. Thank god, it was the '80s, and 90's before RING and cams were everywhere. I would have been cooked. This narrative is just being written as I think about it. I don't have a real "master plan", I am just submitting chapters as the story unfolds in my memory. However, I think later, in the narrative, the early explorations and nascent roots of what will become, it seems, a life-long obsession.]

Suffice it to say, that my sexual fixation and endless hours of masturbating on her panties, bras, and nightgowns, coupled now with my newfound respect, admiration, and sense of protection for my mom, created in me a feeling that completely transcended some simple state of curious voyeuristic horny son spying on his parents; or, so I believed. No, I was a knight errant born at the wrong time. (Didn't King Arthur marry his sister?)

As crazy as it sounds, during my hours-long masturbation sessions with her panties and gowns, I had started to allow myself to imagine us living as husband and wife one day when I would respect and care for her as she deserves to be.

I dreamed of us going on the proverbial long walks on beaches in unknown regions where we could walk hand in hand, unabashed. I could put my arm around her and openly show affection for each other. Then, after a romantic star-lit dinner at night, she would seductively invite me into her bedroom wearing the same silky, cream-white robe that she now enticed my father with.

I could replace him as the far better man, and I presumed I was the far better lover. If only...

But, in reality, I knew there was no "if only".

I knew that all of our lives would be ruined if I tried to say or do anything.

In retrospect, I was in love, albeit unrequited.

I was in love with a wounded, beautiful woman who could not see herself free from a trapping relationship.

Since I wanted what was best for her, I knew that I loved her far more than anyone else, certainly him.

I was ultimately simply hurt that she chose him over me and disappointed that she chose what was not best for her over what was.

Of course, that's how I allowed myself to dream and fantasize during the throes of my hormonal rage and myopically limited worldview at 22 years old in 1991.

There was no internet to sate all these taboo curiosities that no one had answers to before the Web.

I had only heard the word "incest" a handful of times in my life to that point. Mostly, I knew about it from church when we had to read from the Old Testament. Abraham married his sister. Lot impregnated his daughters. And Onan pulled out and came on his sister-in-law's tits. But, in real life, incest fantasies and desires were never once discussed anywhere.

So, I felt utterly alone and trapped and I thought I was carrying the heaviest secret that one could bear. I thought I was the only son in the world to have a sexual obsession and affection for his mother.

I thought God hated me. But, I couldn't stop.

Although I was smitten, in love, and obsessed with my mother, social and societal norms and Southern Christian ethics provided an Iron Wall between fantasy and action.

I could feel what Freud could only imagine.

I know how the young, growing, challenging son in some ancient or primeval setting once felt.

As the son grew older, more competent, and more virile, he, in some cave in early Cro-Magnon Europe, threw his father out of the way as he forcibly re-entered his mother's womb and replaced the old father as her new lover, protector, and guide.

Indeed, societal norms and those Christian moral values that prevented me from acting on my impulses to violently overthrow my father and make animalistic love to my mother did not allow for parental sexual voyeurism either.

However, I assumed that, in the secrecy of my mind and with proper stealth and foresight, I could go undetected by anyone. And if undetected, I would be unknown and therefore not guilty, right?

From my darkened corner of the tub, I braved an attempt to peer around the edge of the shower curtain to see what was happening.

Terror gripped me. I could barely move and had shallow rapid breaths. I had never heard my heartbeat literally through my chest before. I remember thinking that I might have a heart attack.

I was only about twenty feet away from them, and I had a straight shot to the top half of their bed. The bathrooms had no windows, so it was pitch black around me.

I heard shuffling and then a waistband snap.

My heart pounded.

I knew something was happening.

I had to see what.

I carefully leaned my head to the side and tried to poke one eye out from around the shower curtain.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the light, and their room appeared.

My plan had worked. The outside light was bleeding in just enough to give a late twilight glow inside their room.

I could make out my mom, her eyes closed, lips pursed, lying on her right side, on the left side of the bed. The door jam blocked the right side of the bed.

I trained my focus on her. Searching her face for any signs of sexual activity. For a minute, I thought they were asleep, as I couldn't discern any movement or talk.

Slowly, I began to notice her head and shoulders moving slightly forward and back again.

I knew he was inside of her, thrusting into the woman that only I truly love and care for and whose body and vagina I not only dream about but rightfully deserve.

I felt a jealous, possessive rage housed in a super erotic sex drive. I can only describe a feeling like xtc that I will do later with future girlfriends. My whole body was tingling. I had waves of roller coaster-like drops in my stomach. My cock was like a steel rod, throbbing.

I wanted to simultaneously kill him and I wanted to be him.

I wanted for her to both resist and invite his advances.

Her breathing grew deeper, her mouth relaxed, and she began to breathe more quickly and with shallow, staccato breaths.

Her left arm came out from beneath the covers, reached across her face, and gripped the corner of the mattress as his thrusts grew stronger.

I stepped back into the corner of the shower where I was sure I was completely hidden and released my cock from the elastic prison holding my pulsating dick against my abdomen and began to stroke it furiously.

From my new vantage point, I could see her laying, on her right side, at a 45-degree angle with her ass bent toward him.

I could tell her body was absorbing greater and greater thrusts. And, as the thrusts grew stronger, her panting turned into muffled light whimpers into the fabric of the bed, only coming up to grab little halted breaths every four or five deep strokes of his cock.

I reached for the conditioner to ease the friction between my hand and my cock. Carefully removing the top of the bottle and slathering my raging erection with an ocean of white conditioner.

Slowly, I stood back up and readjusted my eyes to the diffused orange-brown light in their bedroom again.

My mom was now reaching her left arm entirely out to support not only herself but also part of his weight against the corner of the bedside table as he had shifted on top of her from behind. Her ass was slightly elevated off the bed, rising in time to meet his thrusts.

The blanket was still covering their lower halves but my mom's t-shirt was around her neck and I could see her tits rocking back and forth to his thrusts.

She raised herself to all fours as the covers fell off their bodies. I now had a complete view.

Her ass was smooth, pale, pale white; even in the dark, the whiteness of her round buns was striking.

I tried hard not to look at him. I moved my head so the curtain's edge would block my view of him, but I had little success.

He was fucking her pretty hard. But I was amazed by how almost nearly silent they were. The hum of the fans drowned out all their noise, and mine, too, luckily.

She was moaning and cooing as he reached up and grabbed her shoulders to push his cock deeper.

Her shoulder-length platinum blonde hair fell around her, obscuring my view of her face.

They stayed like this for a few minutes before in one motion he pulled out and flipped her over on her back.

As though she knew exactly what to do, she grabbed her legs behind the knees, pulled her legs back, and opened wide for him to stab her with his rod.

Why is she inviting him in? Why is she not resisting?

As he repositioned his weight onto his knees and lined up to impale his cock inside of her. For the first time, I saw my father's fully erect penis.

It was huge.

I was floored.

I was insulted.

He was at least two, maybe even three inches bigger than me. Of course, I did not know then that my penis would get larger as I grew into my late twenties, and likely, we would have the same size cock by the time I was his age.

But at that moment, my heartbreak turned to disgust, a sense of belittlement, and further alienation from the possibility of ever satisfying my mother.

Not only is the woman with whom I'm in love rejecting me, she's choosing a man whose cock dwarfs mine.

Purgatory is supposed to be somewhere between Heaven and Hell, and that's precisely where I was in those few minutes when this scenario took place.

It was the most thrilling, amazing sensation I've ever had in my entire life and simultaneously, the most harrowing and gut-wrenching sick feeling would creep into my stomach as waves of ecstasy passed.

Their bodies lined up, facing directly away from me. I could see his at least eight-inch cock, with a sizeable circumcised head entering my mother's perfect patiently waiting pussy.

He moved to a push-up position over top of her and began rubbing his cock back and forth inside of her, exactly where and how I dream of putting mine.

I had the idea to try and cum at the same time as him. So I began to stroke myself in time with his thrusts into her.

It didn't take long for either of us. He began to grunt as his pace quickened and her breathing grew more rapid.

He gave a few slow hard pushes and then paused for a minute without moving, remaining perfectly still inside her. He was cumming. I knew it.

I squeezed one final time on the tip of my cock, and a hurricane stream of cum shot out that audibly made a sound as it hit the shower curtain. They did not notice.

He slowly pulled his cock out and rolled off of her.

She lowered her feet to the mattress, but her legs spread wide open with her knees bent as she convulsed. I had no idea what was happening.

My own mother's freshly fucked, cum filled pussy was now in full view.

How many sons in the history of the world can say they have seen what I saw?

Honestly, if you're out there, I would love to know.

I would love to know if I am the only club member.

In the thirty or so years that have passed since this moment occurred, I can truthfully say that it's the most beautiful and transcendent sexual experience I have ever had.

I suspect I have, in many ways, spent the rest of my life trying to recreate the feelings, emotions, and excitement of that night.

Is that why the cherubim were placed at the gates of Eden, guarding the way back into the place of our birth with flaming swords turning in all directions? My father's flaming sword guarding my Eden and blocking my access to paradise.

This wet, slick, moist, 80's blonde bush I was beholding is the very womb out of which I came. The Life Source that brought me here.

And now I'm staring at her slippery, blonde vagina with pouty lips yearning to get back in.

It is the most forbidden sight for most of mankind.

This is the taboo fruit.

At that moment, all I knew and felt was that I wanted to be inside that beautiful, wet, moist, life-giving cave.

I wanted to run in there, lower my face between her legs and kiss, lick, reclaim and heal my mom's freshly worn and used pussy. But of course that's only in some ancient middle age tale, not in the 1990s in the USA.

In reality, I stood there frozen and panicked thinking that if I got caught what in the world would happen? Would I ever be able to face my parents again?

But I couldn't let my mind wander down those roads. I was too wrapped up in the ecstasy of the moment.

Her body still shook as her hand tried to reach for a sheet.

Just before she could cover herself, though, I saw a white ooze sliding out from between her slick-haired lips--a thick, white cream intermingled with her soaking blonde pubic hair.

It was a beautiful mess.

End Part 2